Little Touches
by sesshomarousecretlove
Summary: what would you sacrifice for sweet little touches? sasunaru... one sided? maybe i shall do a second chapter. ah, you gotta love the overdone angst! :D


**Little Touches**

Those little touches. The little whispers of heaven, of safety, of escape across my skin. I yearn for those little touches. I can ignore the obvious hate in Naruto's body language as the fox boy attacks me. I can ignore the jealousy, the anger, the downright disgust that taints my beautiful bitter angels face whenever he senses my chakra just to be around him for those precious moments. If I could, I would never let him see me, just ghost across his path, searching out his familiar scent and watch him train, but I need those little touches.

The sources of pain against my body were sweet bliss in my mind. Those short meetings of skin held some sort of masochistic pleasure to me, and I held them close. As close as I could without Naruto becoming suspicious. I didn't care if someday he found out the sick way my mind works, but everything I know, feel, _comprehend_ has something to do with pain. What does it matter if comfort comes to me that way too?

The pain is good. It brings me closer. Closer to my parents, to my brother, to the dark, dank, abyss that is my soul. Looking through a window of hazy red, I see my source of sanity, ignoring the hate that pulses in his vibrant blue flecked orange eyes. I lose myself in the dangerous depths, reeling at what I see. So many memories, so much grief envelopes him, but he stands strong and tall and proud and… and happy. How does he do it? How does he stand hair deep in the choking waters of misery and walk around as if it wasn't there? How?

I've slumped to the forest floor now, shaking, trying to control the tears building up behind these long lashes. I can't look up, don't want to. I don't want to look at the hate, or even worse, the pity anymore, don't want to see exactly how he feels about me… it's times like this that I wish I was blind.

"Sasuke…"

If I was paying attention, if I wasn't about to break down, I would've stored that sentence in my mind, reading and rereading it, scrutinizing it till every last possibility was squeezed out like so much wet laundry… but at this point, I didn't care anymore. The pressure building behind my eyes forces to me ignore it, the strength it takes to hold down those angry tears threatens to kill me. I fall into the insanity that was my mind; I'm starting to lose myself forever behind more and more walls, more and more protective boundaries to my heart. Maybe if I went in deep enough I would never have to come out.

"Leave."

My voice hurts my ears; the words leave my throat unbidden and unexpected. My subconscious screams for him to stay, for more of those little touches, but I keep my gaze to the forest floor, concentrating all my pain into the earth as if it could absorb the feelings I was being tortured with right now. Naruto complies, and I let myself relinquish one bitter tear before I close my eyes and wish myself dead. On an impulse, my hand twitches for my kunai bag, my body seeking to abruptly end what my brain and heart had drawn out. Then he's back, and there's the weight of a blanket, rough and thick upon my shoulders, the quick brush of a hand against my shoulder…

Those little touches…

And then he's gone, and I let the tears flow freely. They sting the cuts in my face, but I ignore it, I'm used to ignoring petty things like that. How long as it been since I last cried? Since… since that day when everything came crashing down. My shoulders are shaking now, and I gasp out someone's name, silently, incoherently pleading with him to save me from my monsters. I slowly sink into unconsciousness, the salt streaks down my face hardening uncomfortably.

All too soon, its night, and I'm woken from my sleep by a soft hand, stiffening for a moment in disgust. I had almost mistaken that touch for _him._

"Sasuke-kun!"

That pity. I hate it to my core, and I resist the urge to slap the intruding fingers away, don't bother wasting time trying to imagine, to hope that these painted, lotioned, perfumed, ugly fingers could ever be his.

"Get away from me."

Sighing in overly dramatized hurt, that garishly pink girl stomps away. I'm finding it hard to feel guilty. I never liked that Sakura anyway. I lean back, closing my eyes to the emptiness of the world. It's so cold when the sun runs away…

It and he will be back. They always come back, eventually. For now I'll snuggle into the warmth of the blanket, the light, tantalizing smell of _him_, and look forward to more of those little touches.


End file.
